


infra-grey

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, crowley's a bit of a prickly bitch but he Does want affection, he's also a big fat dumbass and im not projecting. thats canon guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 19:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17925350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: demons don't feel easily. they also don't heal easily.which is inconvenient when, on the anniversary of the Arrangement, Crowley gets hit by a car.





	infra-grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burngormanlesbian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burngormanlesbian/gifts).



He opened his eyes, became aware of three facts, and immediately closed them again.

The first fact was that there were humans in the room. The second fact was that the room was gratingly bright. The third fact was that he, Crowley, was in incredible pain.

He was in some sort of clinic; that much was clear.

The car must have hit him hard, then. At least he had been walking, not driving. This body would heal, but the Bentley wouldn’t have.

He remembered jaywalking, screeching brakes, a crunch, and the dim realisation the crunch was  _ him _ \--dim, of course, because he was losing consciousness. It was the first time he had lost consciousness for non-alcohol-related reasons, and some part of his mind registered that fact with something like amusement before everything went infra-black.

Well, infra-grey.

He wondered how long he’d been lying prone in a hospital bed. The answer was twenty-eight minutes. He  _ should _ have wondered how long it had been since the car had hit him, because the answer was sixty-nine minutes. He had blacked out for precisely sixty-nine minutes and would have been fantastically proud had he known, because sure, he’d come close to discorporation, but he’d come close to discorporation with flair, and at the end of the day it would make a pretty good story to tell Aziraphale over a bottle of wine, right?

Oh, fuck.

_ Aziraphale. _

Crowley almost groaned. It would take him a long time to recover from his injuries, he could tell, and only the angel knew enough about him to patch him up properly. Well, theoretically Hastur or Ligur could, but the thought made him shudder--sure, they could stitch him up, but not before they’d surgically altered each and every one of his limbs to make sure they never worked again. So Aziraphale’s ministrations it was, even if he’d never live it down. He dreaded the experience, and not just because of the requisite embarrassment. Anyone else would have just healed him up and sent him on his way, but poor Aziraphale, as he always did, would insist on  _ caring _ . Soup, blankets, warm food, a bath; if flipped on its head, it could easily be vice, but given out of kindness? He hated it. And if he hated it so strongly because some quiet part of him thought he didn’t deserve it, well then that part of him would just have to stay quiet. 

There was something else, though, he thought vaguely, battling the pain. There was something else about Aziraphale, something _ important _ , and he tried to reach for it, but his brain (yes, contrary to how he acted, Crowley did in fact have a brain) sent a spasm of agony through his body, and he forced himself to relax. He was, though he wouldn’t admit it, trembling. 

The first order of business, he decided, was to ensure that every nurse and orderly spontaneously left the room for a smoke.

Every nurse and orderly spontaneously left the room for a smoke.

The second order of business was to assess how badly he was hurt.

He assessed how badly he was hurt. 

_ Badly _ hurt.

The third order of business was just that Crowley thought it would be pretty fucking great if his dose of painkillers were upped just slightly, so it was. The increase would end up slurring his speech and make him frightfully emotional, but as he had no inkling of that, he was safe from it.

For a while.

For about five minutes, in fact. Because not even five minutes later, Aziraphale came.

He came hurrying, apologising in torrents, already reproachful, and late, but he came.

 

The first thing he did was send all the other patients in the room into a peaceful sleep. The second thing he did was draw the curtains. The third thing he did was check the room’s clock against his watch, realise it was two minutes fast, and fix it. The fourth thing he did was settle next to Crowley on the hospital bed, touch his shoulder gently, and tell him how stupid he’d been.

Well, not exactly.

“What on earth were you thinking?” he asked politely.

(But the implication of Crowley-you’ve-been-stupid was definitely there.)

“I don’t remember,” said Crowley, which was true, “But I’m sure I was thinking  _ something _ ,” which wasn’t. “I was going somewhere.”

Aziraphale exhaled. “Evidently not with great success.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Do you remember where?”

“To the bookshop,” Crowley guessed, though he wasn’t entirely certain. “ _ Your _ bookshop,” he added accusingly. The light seemed to be brightening, verging on intolerable, and his whole chest throbbed.

A look of pity crossed Aziraphale’s face. He gave up his line of questioning and instead began combing with his fingers through the demon’s unruly hair, looking to Crowley carefully to see if he’d object.

Instead, he saw something unfamiliar etched deeply into the demon’s face.

Pain.

“Please,” Crowley managed, his voice rapidly destabilising, “Wings.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale softly, and then, “Of course, my dear.”

His wings unfurled with a familiar rustle and draped themselves over the two of them, sheltering Crowley from the harsh light and hiding Aziraphale’s face.

One of Crowley’s hands lifted and folded itself around the back of Aziraphale’s neck. The other curled tenderly but insistently around his jaw. Aziraphale covered it with his own, surprised but not averse to the sudden affection.

“Kiss me,” Crowley demanded, his voice slurred. 

“My dear boy. Really?” Aziraphale leaned down and gave Crowley a light peck on the forehead, but Crowley shook his head, digging his fingers into Aziraphale’s skin.

“Kisssss me properly.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands in his lap, turning away. “We can’t forget who we are.”

Crowley sagged back against the pillow, turned his gaze to the slice of ceiling visible between Aziraphale’s wings. He was absolutely drugged-out and had no intention of drugging back in, and the fact that his brain had come up with the phrase “drugging back in” was proof of it. He half-hissed but gave up on the attempt to muster anger, dropping his hands. “’Ssss ok.”

Kissing a demon full on the mouth, he reflected dully, would probably land Aziraphale in Heaven’s bad books for at least a quarter-century. Now, in Crowley’s mind, any rulebook that says Don’t Snog Demons Even If They’re Hot (and Crowley knew he was hot) is not a rulebook that’s worth following, but clearly Aziraphale felt differently, and Crowley understood. He knew Aziraphale liked his job; it gave him a sense of purpose, something to occupy his buzzing mind, and something to make him smile. Sometime around 1799, Crowley got the sense he understood Aziraphale in a fairly fundamental way, and that was when he knew he had to take a quick nap to forget the revelation. Of course, when he woke up circa 1901, he still remembered all Aziraphale’s favourite novels and his least favourite wine. But he’d forgotten his favourite colour, so it wasn’t a total bust.

And in all his thoughts about remembering, he remembered remembering. That is, he remembered not just  _ where _ he’d been going--to Aziraphale’s bookshop, of course--but  _ why _ he’d been going: to bring him flowers.

Yes, Crowley realised furiously, he was going to bring Aziraphale flowers. Scentless, ugly flowers he knew Aziraphale’s human body was allergic to, but flowers nonetheless. It was the day they’d picked to celebrate the anniversary of the Arrangement, and today of all days, he’d been thwarted--and not even thwarted well. Being thwarted by your frenemy’s powerful angelic grace was satisfactory. Being thwarted by two tonnes of moving, mechanised blunt-force trauma was  _ not _ .

If the phrase, “that’s just how it be on this bitch of an earth” had been invented, he would have used it. As it was, he just groaned. A successful flower delivery would have resulted in him proudly telling Hell he had injured--well, sickened--well, given allergies to--an angel, and the fact that Aziraphale would shuffle the flowers into a bouquet of roses could stay between the two of them. As it was, he’d have to make effort. And in his wounded state, making effort did not sound appealing. He was hurting like he--like hea--like something Really Fucking Bad, which was frankly a little demoralising.

He threw an arm over his eyes and tried valiantly to pass out. Aziraphale, taking his cue, adjusted the blankets around him to more properly cover him up. He passed a hand over the demon’s chest, and several breaks decreased to fractures.

“Poor thing,” the angel murmured, so quietly Crowley couldn’t be sure it was real, “You never really meant to Fall.”

“But I did,” said Crowley, in the exact tone of the “But you didn’t” vine.

“But you did,” Aziraphale agreed mildly, and if he were surprised that Crowley heard him, he gave no indication. “Are you feeling better?”

“Better,” Crowley confirmed, knowing Aziraphale had something to do with it. “Thank you.”

“Of course. I do love you, you know.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind their eyelids. “You love everyone.”

“Yes, but you’re part of that everyone,” the angel told him, as if he were paying a glowing compliment. Maybe he was. Crowley rolled his eyes again.

“Would you like me to stay?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” said Crowley unceremoniously. And then, “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

The sat in silence for a bit. Or rather, Aziraphale continued sitting, attempting unsuccessfully to hum without making noise, while Crowley continued lying down and attempting unsuccessfully to be in less pain.

“It’s the anniversary of the Arrangement,” he finally said. “I was going to bring you flowers.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale asked, sounding irritatingly pleased. “What kind?”

Crowley thought back. “Mostly lilacs.”

“Lilac,” Aziraphale mused. “My favourite colour.”

Dammit.

_ Dammit. _

He’d remembered his favourite colour all along.

**Author's Note:**

> written as a gift for [@dykeiel](https://dykeiel.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
